


Carry On

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s03e04 Children of Earth - Day 4, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: Emptiness. Not quite darkness, exactly. Dark had a semblance of colour; dark was black. Dark was the absence of light, not the absence of everything. It felt black, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything. The place after life, if you could call it a place at all, was less of a space and more of a feeling. Had it been a real, physical place, it would certainly be all shades of blacks and grays maybe deep, blood reds. It would be shadowy and cold and almost quiet but not quite- or, so was the belief of Jack Harkness.Jack is dead. But this time, there's something waiting in the not-darkness for him.Post-Day 4 angst. Melodramatic, certainly, but still sad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Torchwood Fest Day 6, for the prompt Nowhere To Go. I'd been working on this fic for a while, so I used today as an excuse to get it finished off. I'm quite happy with the result, although the middle is a bit melodramatic.

Emptiness. Not quite darkness, exactly. Dark had a semblance of colour; dark was black. Dark was the absence of light, not the absence of everything. It _felt_ black, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything. The place after life, if you could call it a place at all, was less of a space and more of a feeling. Had it been a real, physical place, it would certainly be all shades of blacks and grays maybe deep, blood reds. It would be shadowy and cold and almost quiet but, so not quite- or, so was the belief of Jack Harkness.

This place-but-not-a-place was a state in which the Captain spent a worrying amount of time, and as much as he tried not to think about it while he was alive, sometimes it was inevitable. He remembered at one point wishing that it was somewhere tangible that we went every time he died if only for the satisfaction of being its most frequent (and sole non-permanent) visitor. That, and maybe his trip back to the living wouldn’t have to be so painful. Being painfully dragged, as if over a bed of hot coals and broken glass, back to life was less than pleasant. Considerably so. Instead, Jack was stuck in a strange kind of conscious sleep – more of a sensation than anything. It was like the moments before falling asleep, the ones that you half remember when you wake up. A delirium that could have been waking or unconscious, you can never quite tell. Jack had once described it as the feeling of diving into deep water, the same sensation of detached awareness and fading light, before the burning lungs and the desperate gulps and the pain of nearly dying, but as the light rushes closer and closer and a dead man takes his first breath of a new life, death eludes him once again.

Sometimes he went looking for death, but he’d never managed to find it for long before being thrown back into the reality he often sought to escape. Most deaths, intentional or not, Jack would be relieved to have a moment of nothingness; occasionally relieved enough to forgive the physical agony that came with coming back. Others times, it was an inconvenience. Once he was here, there was nowhere to go. Death became an irritating interlude in whatever action had seen his demise that day, which could probably have been avoided if Jack hadn’t (metaphorically) pushed the (figurative) gas pedal to the (also figurative) floor of whatever Weevil hunt or miscellaneous Rift alert he had deemed unworthy of tactical planning and/or common sense.

But those days were gone. It was so easy to forget, with everything that had happened since, but it weighed down on him, especially now that— now that the Hub was gone. Just like Owen, just like Tosh.

Just like Ianto.

Two days ago, as his body slowly rebuilt itself from its charred remains into the invincible, broken mess of a paradox that was Jack Harkness, the man had been sure that no pain in the universe could match how he was suffering.

Well.

He’d been wrong.

Losing Ianto – each of those words a knife to his chest and his head and his stomach and his heart – hadn’t sunk in yet. Jack was sinking, sinking into the depths of an ocean of grief that he had previously thought had no end, but there he was, looking down at rock fucking bottom. Or maybe he was just being hopeful. Maybe he would sink and sink and never hit the ocean floor, never hit anything, ever again. Losing Ianto – another stab, another stomp on the shattered remains of the heart he had left behind in the embrace that Ianto had died in – was the worst kind of loss. Instead of tears or screams or shaking fists, had Jack still been alive, his eyes would have been dry and his voice would have been silent and his hands would have been still. Losing Ianto had left the same not-black, not-cold, not-not-grief sensation as dying that Jack had become so familiar with. Expect this time, instead of leaving it behind when he woke up, Jack’s (un)consciousness registered that he would wake up with death in his chest. A vacuum where there had once been some semblance of a soul. He would carry it around with him like a wound that no one could see; only its symptoms would be visible, if anyone bothered to look. It’s easier to spot someone who is dying on the outside than it is someone on the inside, but it’s infinitely harder to stop the latter from dying than the former. Grief is the most difficult hurt to cure. He knew that better than most.

Jack had been in outer space. He’d looked into the endless void, heard the utter silence and felt the nothingness wash over him. Now, the emptiness that he had seen in the vast expanse of the universe was all that he had left to feel within himself. None of the anger or the desperation that he usually toiled with were present. He was nowhere and he felt nothing.

Jack Harkness was dead, and not for the first time, he wished more than anything that he could stay like that. But as much as the living could not help but die and the dead could not help the living, Jack could not help but die only to live again. Already, he sensed his body inching its way back towards life. His ascent from the deep was starting; the light was coming back. Jack could feel the beginnings of a familiar, singular pain coursing through his limited senses. That was nothing compared to the bitter hopelessness of soon having to face a world Jack would rather not exist in anymore. Any world cruel enough to take what it had from him was not one worth living in.

And suddenly, he was back in the not-darkness. A muted shock ran through him, vague surprise at the decidedly unusual turn of events punctuating the drowsy sensation of being dead. Despite his state of, well, dead-ness, Jack registered that there was something fundamentally different. Another day, any other day, this might have been a cause for concern, but now, after today, it wasn’t even a relief. The possibility of staying dead was a welcome one, but Jack had learned not to get his hopes up, especially whilst dead. Instead, Jack focused on focusing on nothing at all, hoping it would buy him more time. All he wanted was more time, time here and now to make up for all the time he’d have to live after this. He would live for all time. It was the one thing Jack was sure he’d never be short of.

And yet.

There was nothing Jack would not have done to give Ianto just a little more time.

The clutches of death loosened their hold on him once again, and Jack felt life tugging at every atom in his body, urging it back to consciousness. He fought as hard as he could, desperately trying to keep his own head underwater as his body screamed for air. Jack forced himself to remember, to think of those last few moments before he’d died, the final moment of Ianto’s life. When he woke up, got up and carried on, he’d have to do it without Ianto. The thought of having to live that life filled every ounce of what consciousness he could cling to without reviving with a pain Jack’s body could never match.

Jack vaguely remembered one of the (many) nights he and Ianto had spent together at Ianto’s flat. Sleep had eluded him, and for hours he had held Ianto in his arms, watching his chest rise and fall as the young man slept. For hours, Jack had thought about the life that Ianto had led, and far removed it was from the life he deserved. The life he could never lead at Torchwood. Names and faces of those who had worked at Torchwood and died before reaching the age of thirty that Jack had known, worked with, been friends with, laughed with and loved had flashed before his eyes. For every memory, Jack had held Ianto a little tighter in his embrace. He’d been sick with guilt for the past and worry for the future, and the fact that he could do nothing to change a history he didn’t know. By early morning, Jack couldn’t take it anymore, and had silently departed before Ianto woke up.

Now, as the same helplessness overcame him, Jack regretted more than anything in his life that he hadn’t stayed that morning. Hadn’t stayed, hadn’t waited for Ianto to begin to stir, hadn’t seen his eyes flutter open and widen in surprise then soften when he realised that Jack was still there, holding him, hadn’t kissed him awake and made him breakfast, hadn’t-

Jack hadn’t told him. In all their time together, Jack had never told him. Even as Ianto lay dying, Jack hadn’t told him that he loved him. Ianto had died without hearing the words that Jack had held back for fear of them not being the words Ianto wanted to hear, for fear of his own heart breaking beyond repair when Ianto inevitably left him, whether in life or in death.

Had he been alive, it would have been at this point that a dam would have broken inside of him and Jack would have sobbed uncontrollably for all the mistakes he’d made when it came to Ianto Jones.

Ianto had deserved so much better. (Jack’s world got a little not-darker.) It was Jack’s fault Ianto had suffered so much of the pain that he had. (Everything became even less not-quiet.) Ianto wasn’t coming back. (The not-cold grew and grew until Jack could have sworn he was shivering.) Jack would never see Ianto again. He was gone. Gone, gone. Had he been alive, Jack would have cried out. Ianto, his heart screamed.

              Jack.

He felt the word rather than heard it. Something, someone, calling out to him. A feeling was seeking him out. As if in a dream, the shadow of a presence fell over Jack. Fumbling for some hold on the feeling, Jack tried to listen for the thought.

              Jack.

Had he been alive, Jack’s heart would have begun to race. It may not have been a voice in his head, but it sounded familiar nonetheless. It felt like everything he was sure he would never see or hear again.

_Ianto?_

              Oh, Jack.

_Is it- is it you?_

              Who else?

The same feelings that caused that desperate laugh people some did when they were so happy they could die seeped in to fill the empty space within him. It was strange, to have a conversation in emotions.

_Oh my gods, Ianto. How is this possible? I’m dead, this can only be my imagination, I’m dead and there’s nothing and you’re gone and I will never see you again and I’m dead and you’re dead and-_

              Jack, please. Stop. Calm down.

_Ianto?_

              I’m sorry that it ended the way it did.

_So am I. Ianto, I wasn’t lying, I would take it all back, but never you._

              I know.

_Good. And there’s one other thing that you should know, something very important that I never told you because I was afraid and that’s no excuse but, Ianto I-_

              Jack. It’s alright. I know.

_I’m sorry._

              I know.

_What don’t you know?_

              Not much. How I can help you after you wake up, that’s one thing.

_Ianto._

              You can’t delay the inevitable forever. You know that.

And he did. More than anything, he did. Jack wished he could forget, forget everything expect Ianto and live with the memory of him without having to exist in a real world full of other broken-hearted people.

_I’m going to miss you. So much._

              Jack, I- I wish there was something I could do.

_Ianto. You’ve done so much. For me, for the world. I can’t believe I did something so damn stupid, I can’t believe I didn’t think and I-_

              I know, Jack.

_I know you know._

              Jack-

_I love you._

              I wish I could make it easier.

_Ianto Jones, I wouldn’t have it any other way. What kind of man would it make me not to grieve for you?_

              A smart one.

_Love doesn’t make people smart, Ianto._

              I know.

Ianto, or whatever part of his brain was desperately pretending that Ianto was there, was right. He couldn’t do this forever.

_I don’t want to go._

              I didn’t either.

_I’m sorry._

              I’m sorry too.

_You shouldn’t be._

              I am anyway.

_I know._

He could feel the draw, pulling him back to life. Jack was going to wake up soon.

              I love you.

_I know._

              That’s my line.

_I know._

 

_Ianto?_

_I love you too._

 

The only thing Jack could do forever was live.

So live he would.

 

* * *

 

When Jack woke up, there was no gasp for air. Just a breath. There was only a numbness in his chest, and the memory of saying goodbye. Goodbye. It was less pain than it was an absence. Ianto. Jack wished he could have pain instead.

It was like the end of a movie, when the credits rolled and the music died down and you had to readjust to the reality around you, when the world that had meant so much to you ceased to be.

Jack sat up. There were no arms around him, no voice to soothe him back into the world of the living. He saw the sheets of red plastic, covering the other bodies. He saw Gwen next to him, crouched over what could only be-

Jack got up. He put his arms around Gwen. He heard Gwen say something, but none of her words registered. Tears stung his eyes. Jack refused cry. There would be time for that later. Right now, he knew it was time to carry on.

Wake up, get up, carry on.

Time to go.


End file.
